


Stress

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft To The Rescue, Panic Attacks, Protective Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 22:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12735492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Greg sees work stress and not-work stress as different beasts. Neither is a problem. Until one of them is.





	Stress

**Author's Note:**

> TW - fairly detailed panic attack and aftermath.

Work and Not-Work were two very different worlds. The stresses of work, for all they appeared horrific and grim, were far easier to deal with, from Greg’s perspective. He’d spent many a slightly drunk evening debating the exact reason, with others and with himself, and the closest they’d come to figuring it out was that the messes they found at work were not personal. Not to them, anyway. It was when you went home and the hassles were about you that tempers flared more easily, emotions rose when they would otherwise remain in check. And for Greg, it was the anxiety that was the worst. For while it was always manageable at work, nothing brought on his anxiety more than stress at home. And lately there had been plenty of it.

Once his wife had finally left, he’d thought the pressure would ease, at least on a day to day level. No coming home to God-knew what: accusations, silent treatment or nothing at all, not even his wife. No cold stares, odd perfumes or suspiciously affectionate greetings, none of which quite made sense. He’d stayed while she packed, making no secret he didn’t trust her to leave all his things. The tension was awful, following her from room to room, occasionally clearing his throat when she picked up something that was not hers. He could feel it, a low-key prickling at the back of his neck, down his arms to the back of his hands; not enough to be itchy, but more annoying that tingling. It was like the sensation after you’ve had a limb fall asleep, when it’s almost right again but not quite. It came in waves, each eliciting a grimace of discomfort, a twist of one shoulder hoping to make it dissipate. It never worked.

This low level sensation continued in the weeks after she was gone, following him through the routine of his life, taking the edge of enjoyment off the few things that prompted such emotion. Greg tried everything, from heat packs to ice, massage to numbing creams but he could not for the life of him find the stimulus that would drive it away. Only work made it disappear. It was as though concentrating on the terrible day someone else had had stopped him remembering how bad his own life was at the moment. Once he’d clocked out it would happen again, creeping in, the restless feeling that went along with it, making it hard for him to settle down to anything anyway. John said he could prescribe some mild anti-anxiety medications, but Greg refused; his jiggling leg and the discomfort across his shoulders notwithstanding, he was okay. I mean, he rationalised, he wasn’t sleeping worse than before, and he’d always eaten pretty badly, so really, there was nothing to worry about. So to speak.

 

Until there was.

 

The work day had been the same – following up leads from one case, reviewing statements for another before the callout to a new scene. Some poor bastard stabbed by his girlfriend. At least it was a straightforward one, Greg thought as they took the girl away to make a statement. It meant he could go home at a reasonable hour, at far as a copper’s life went. Standing on the street, deciding between a cab and walking home, Greg chose walking. It wasn’t too far, and God knew he needed the exercise, little as it would be. As he walked away from work, Greg braced for the skittering fingers of anxiety across his shoulders, the cold-hot-cold touches down the backs of his hands. It was probably his focus on these, his most common symptoms, that made him rationalise what was happening with the rest of his body. Faster breathing, tighter chest – must be the walking, brisker than usual. Tightening muscles in his neck and hands – it was the cold, no matter, he’d been out in it all day. Swirling vision, sound a bit wonky – okay he had nothing for that, what the hell was going on? Stopping, Greg took stock of himself. If he didn’t know better he’d think he was having a panic attack, the kind he used to have when he knew his wife was cheating and he’d have to confront her about it. He had no idea why it was happening now – what had his subconscious processed that his conscious mind had missed? Either way, he was here, several blocks from home, grasping the wall, closing his eyes to try and control his breathing. As he did so, the familiar pittery pattery of the icy fingers slid along his shoulders, far stronger than they had for a long time; he shuddered violently, feeling nauseated and dizzy. Greg gasped, knowing in the dim panic of his mind that his breathing was the key; if he could get it under control he could ride out the discomfort of the rest. Knowing and overcoming panic to do so were different things, though, and with every passing breath Greg felt it slip, the panic rising steadily, his erratic breathing now more sobs than breaths.

“Gregory?” The sound of his own name surged through the rush of blood in his ears. He could not tell if it was real or another facet of the nightmare. It was unlikely he could fashion a response, either way.

“Gregory.” Less a question now, firmer and more authoritarian. Greg opened his eyes, pushing back at the vertigo and nausea. Mycroft Holmes swayed in front of him, several facsimiles of him in fact. Greg blinked, closing his eyes again. He couldn’t even really think to wonder why Mycroft was here, and his breathing was the most important now. He knew from grim experience that he’d hyperventilate until he passed out, a singularly humiliating and frightening experience. To be avoided at all costs, and yet the knowledge he was close to that only stoked the fire of his panic.

“Breathe with me, Gregory.” The voice again, barely audible over the rasping noise from Greg’s throat.

“Inhale, hold, exhale, hold. Come on, Gregory, focus on my voice. We can do it together. Inhale, hold, exhale, hold.” The voice was still there, and desperate as he was, Greg clung to it, fighting the ‘breathe faster’ instinct driving him towards unconsciousness. He felt his diaphragm spasm as it tried to contract while he fought to hold it steady. A grunt of pain, and he fought again; one shaking inhale, though the stuttering exhale was hardly what he needed.

“Good. Keep going. Inhale, hold, exhale, hold. You’re doing an exemplary job.” Mycroft’s voice was less commanding now that Greg was making the effort his tone was more comforting, an adjective Greg never thought he’d apply to Mycroft. Concentrating on his breathing for what felt like forever, Greg realised the slower breaths were coming more easily now. His vertigo had abated, and a wave of nausea had not passed over him in a while. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes; the world swivelled a little, but righted itself. His vision was still soft as though he hadn’t worn his contact lenses, a common aftereffect of this kind of event.

“Inhale, hold, exhale, hold.” The voice was still there, repeating the mantra even as Greg tried to stand up. He’d been crouching down, he realised. Slumped was probably more accurate, the ground a lot closer than he had thought as he pushed up to a shaky standing position. The wall was still there, a welcome support as his weak legs worked to keep him upright. When the tension bled away it took his strength, as it often did. The chills were gone, leaving hypersensitive skin in its place as always. Hypersensitivity or not, Greg would always have jumped at the touch of Mycroft’s hand to his.

“Gregory?” the voice, the same voice, still comforting, now tentative. Greg turned his eyes to Mycroft, standing beside him in the street.

“My...Mycroft.” Greg stumbled. His mouth was dry, swallowing difficult as he tried to wet his tongue enough to thank the surprising aide to his moment of weakness.

“This way, Gregory.” Mycroft’s hand left Greg’s, settling under his elbow in a supporting/guiding role. While Greg would usually protest, he was still recovering and knew getting home from here would be next to impossible on his own. He slid shakily into Mycroft’s car, closing his eyes and letting out a still-trembling sigh as his body finally relaxed. His breathing was steady now, back where it should be, but his body was letting him know about it.

“Drink this,” Mycroft’s voice was close and something was pressing into Greg’s hand. A glass. He opened his eyes and sat up a little, drinking the sparkling water, swishing it around his mouth with relief.

“Thanks,” Greg said, returning the glass. Their fingers touched on the cool crystal, but he didn’t comment. In truth, Greg had withheld a shiver, the contact like points of unpleasant fire on his oversensitive skin.

“Home, I assume.” Mycroft asked, and Greg nodded. They drove for the few moments in silence until Greg felt the car pull over.

“Thanks, agai- what are you doing?” Greg asked, as Mycroft alighted from the car with him, clearly intent on seeing him inside.

“I must ensure you are safely inside before I depart, Gregory.” Mycroft’s tone was quiet but it broached no argument. Greg was too weak and fuzzy to care. His vision was still soft, the images not quite matching up with the sound supplied by his ears. It wasn’t uncommon, but it always made him feel a little off-kilter, not unlike some of the recreational drugs he’d used before joining the force. He’d never enjoyed that aspect of it. Up the stairs, outer door, four steps to the mailbox, one flight, landing, one flight, Greg’s door. He fumbled with his keys, fingers clumsy until the right key finally turned the tumblers and the door gave.

“May I suggest a cup of tea?” Mycroft murmured as Greg stood blankly in the hallway. He wanted to sleep, God was he tired; was Mycroft asking him to make a cup of tea? Greg stood in blank indecision for long enough to hear Mycroft rummaging around in his kitchen; it was an offer of tea, then. Without consulting Mycroft, Greg walked slowly into his bedroom, changing into the track pants and t shirt he slept in. Might even call into work tomorrow, give himself a proper recovery time. He had no idea how long he sat on the edge of the bed, heavy muscles pulling him down, mind in neutral, before Mycroft knocked tentatively on the doorframe.

“Would you like your tea in here?” Mycroft asked. Greg, who had turned at the knock, blinked at him, considering the question with his slow mind.

“Sure,” he replied finally, not entirely sure he remembered the question. The fuzzy head was definitely the worst part of this, he thought. When Mycroft returned, Greg accepted his mug and gestured awkwardly to the end of the bed. He propped himself up against the headboard.

“White with two sugars, as you prefer,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg was surprised – since when did Mycroft know how he took his tea? “Thank you.” Greg frowned, contemplating the swirl of the liquid in his mug. “Why were you…I mean, you arrived pretty fast.” Greg asked awkwardly.

“I…” The sentence, started then aborted, sounded odd in the otherwise quiet space. Greg sat up straighter, fighting his mind to pay attention. Mycroft Holmes had just started a sentence without finishing it, and now he was…blushing?

“Mycroft?” Greg asked carefully. This seemed like a very important moment, somehow. The question felt like The Question, an opportunity for Mycroft to make a choice. Greg didn’t really know what was going on, but he was astute enough not to barge through it. He waited for Mycroft to formulate his response.

“Your neighbourhood is not the safest in the city, Gregory,” Mycroft explained, the delicate flush not abating. “I sometimes…when the weather is clear and you are more likely to choose to walk…I have been known to ensure you arrive home safely.”

Greg blinked. His mind was slow, but he thought Mycroft had said…. “You follow me home?”

Closing his eyes in obvious discomfort, Mycroft nodded.

“You know I’m a police detective, right?” Greg told him.

“You are flesh and blood, Gregory, like any man,” Mycroft shot back, his eyes opening to blaze at Greg. They descended into silence as Greg considered Mycroft’s words. _Like any man…like Mycroft, perhaps?_ A slow spiralling thrill went through Greg as one possible solution occurred to him.

“I never thanked you.” Greg said neutrally.

“Indeed you did, in the car,” Mycroft replied. He seemed relieved that Greg had let his minor stalking go.

“No, I was thanking you for the drink,” Greg said. His heart was beating faster again, but it wasn’t a panic attack this time. The extra blood flowing through him was useful when he put his tea on the bedside table and reached over to take Mycroft’s from his hands.

“I haven’t thanked you for helping me through that anxiety attack,” Greg told him, meeting Mycroft’s eyes and scooting closer along the edge of the bed, so their knees almost touched. Mycroft’s expression was confused, and it wasn’t until Greg leaned forward, extending one hand to cover the long pale fingers of Mycroft’s hand that the penny seemed to drop. Mycroft’s mouth slackened, jaw dropping open slightly.

“Oh,” he whispered.

“Oh,” Greg confirmed. “Is that why you followed me?” his question was gentle, tentative, and the uncertainty and sheer risk of it all made his skin sing. Or perhaps that was Mycroft, hand still caught under Greg’s.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied honestly. From so close, with his vision closer to normal, Greg could see the remarkable colour of Mycroft’s eyes – how had he never noticed the vibrancy of that blue before now?

“So, if I was to thank you by…” Greg leaned closer, deliberately dropping his gaze to Mycroft’s parted lips. He tucked his fingers under Mycroft’s palm, gripping a little tighter when Mycroft’s breath hitched, his head nodded jerkily.

“Y-yes.” Mycroft whispered. His own eyes were flickering between Greg’s eyes and mouth, and Greg knew he had made the right call. They were centimetres apart, the warm flush of breath on his face as Mycroft’s features blurred, too close to focus on. Greg’s eyes drifted closed as his lips brushed Mycroft’s, his aim a little off – he touched the very corner of Mycroft’s lips, pressing gently before shifting across, tilting his head so he could settle his mouth more fully over Mycroft’s. Greg felt himself exhale, the long-denied desire flowing through him at the sensation of his lips against Mycroft’s. They kissed and withdrew, returning again and again, Mycroft’s fingers squeezing against Greg’s as they explored with chaste little movements. As Greg made to move away, wondering what he would even say, Mycroft’s spare hand curled around the back of his neck, pulling him in and sending sparks flashing across his skin. The same skin, the same place, but the sensation was as far as possible from the uncomfortable prickling ice of his anxiety. This was excitement and desire, warmth and comfort. As Greg relaxed into Mycroft’s touch, deepening their kiss, part of his mind reflected that perhaps this was the right kind of stimulus to ease his disquiet. Finally.


End file.
